


Neither a Bully nor a Coward

by AnonEhouse



Series: Tiny Tony 'verse [17]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEhouse/pseuds/AnonEhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony is going to be twenty. Tony is going to be a big man. Tony is not afraid of anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither a Bully nor a Coward

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely not how they met in comic canon. I do not care. This is more fun.

(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)

Tony is tired of waiting for a growth spurt that stubbornly refuses to happen. He insists the tailor use three different tape measures before he reluctantly admits that 172.7 cm is it. Five foot, eight inches, how depressing. Hitler was five foot, eight inches. So was Alexander the Great. Tony really isn't interested in conquering the world in order to make himself feel like a big man. Ringo Starr is five foot, eight... Tony can sort of play a guitar and tinkle out a tune on a piano, but his singing voice... no, Rock Star is not a career option. Bruce Lee! No one _ever_ looked down on Bruce Lee.

Tony goes to Hong Kong, but gets bored after two weeks of forms practice, drills, and whacking hell out of dummies while drinking only tea and vegetable smoothies. "Sorry," he tells his teacher, while bowing in respect over a teapot full of hot saki. "I have a family obligation to support distilleries." Fortunately, his teacher is a traditionalist, and throws him through a rice-paper wall, so no harm done.

Tony climbs a mountain somewhere in the Alps... halfway. It's ridiculously cold, and rather lonely and as his guide points out later as he wraps up Tony's twisted ankle before dragging him off the mountain, drinking whiskey doesn't really keep you warm.

Tony dives off a cliff in Acapulco. One of the lower cliffs, but still. He loves the adrenalin rush as he falls, but the smack of hitting the water doesn't do much for his hangover. "I need more tequila," he remarks as they pull him out of the ocean.

He can't find a bullring willing to let him play, which is probably for the best, because he doesn't think it quite fair that he'd have swords and picadors and really, the bull hardly ever wins. It'd be better if there was a way to even things out, where the bulls have an equal...oh, hey, there's an idea! Tony goes back to Europe, to Pamplona in Spain. He arrives a few days before the first run and discovers the joys of Amontillado. He listens to the rules, buys his white clothes and red bandana and sash, and promises, really, that he won't incite the bulls or be drunk while running.

Tony lies. Just a little. He has a little Amontillado in his coffee, or perhaps a little coffee in his Amontillado, the morning of the first encierro. But after all, he's not really _drunk_. It's just a wake-me-up, that's all. He doesn't see why the bulls have to run at 8 a.m. which means he had to get up before sunrise, which, no, a man can't be expected to do that on coffee alone. He's steady on his feet, he's fine, although he feels a bit silly to be holding a rolled-up newspaper that he's been advised to use to distract the bull if necessary. The idea makes him giggle a bit, thinking he'll smack a bull on the nose and shout, "Bad boy."

Tony knows enough Spanish to follow along with the other runners singing the benediction, but he gives a pass to the Basque version. He stretches against a wall and then waits for the first rocket, signaling the opening of the corral gate, mind ticking over what will happen. The police will stop holding the crowd back. The crowd will start running down the cordoned off street. Six bulls will be released from the pen along with six steers. A second rocket will be set off. Three more steers will be released two minutes later. The average speed of the herd will be 24 km/h (15 mph). That's not so fast. He can do this. The run is 826 meters (903 yards) before the bulls reach the corral in the bull ring. Average duration of the event from the first rocket to the corral is four minutes. Easy. Tony has decided not to wear lifts today. The bulls have enough of an advantage. 

The rocket goes up, and Tony is running with the crowd without actually thinking about it. The cobblestones are uneven. People are watching from windows all around. His heart is pounding and his legs are pumping hard. He gets shouldered aside, stumbles, almost goes down, gets up and is running and now he hears the clatter of the bulls and he's slipped back behind the crowd and damn these shoes really have an inadequate friction coefficient, and oh, hell, he's forgot that the corner of Estafeta street is tight, so tight the bulls often fall, and there's one down in front of him, and no, now it's up and chasing him. There's hot breath on the back of his neck, and the smell of a hot, angry animal, and Tony flails, spearing his newspaper on the horn of the incredibly huge brown creature with rolling red eyes and flaring red nostrils and there's a lot of disgusting greenish-white foam coming from its mouth, and then something grabs him and yanks him between one of the gaps in the double barricade.

The bull slams into the barricade on top of him and Tony is... oh...he looks up. That's not a bull. A man, a little older maybe than Tony, is grinning down at him. "Hey, you're pretty fast for a little guy," the man says as he levers himself off of Tony and sits down on the cobblestones. The man has a wide grin and a streak of blood along one arm. "That's a rush, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Tony grins back. The bulls are past and the spectators are now starting to enter the street.

"Oh, you're an American, too!" The man holds out one large hand. "I'm Happy."

"Me, too. I didn't really want to be squashed."

The man laughs. "No, I mean, my name's Harold Hogan, but everyone calls me Happy." His hand is still held out, waiting patiently.

Tony nods. "Tony Stark." He shakes Happy's hand. "Wanna go get a drink?"

"Sure." Happy looks at Tony. "You old enough? Not that they really care that much here."

"I've been old enough..." Tony takes a deep breath and reminds himself not to be rude to the nice man who has just saved him from becoming a Tony Kabob. "Yeah, I'm legal here. Not yet back home, though."

"Where's home?" Happy stands up, and stretches. He is a big guy, broad-shouldered and heavy. He rather reminds Tony of the bull, except for the lack of red eyes, green foam and the whole wanting to stomp him flat.

"Well, I was born on Long Island." 

"Hey, I'm from Brooklyn!" Happy grabs Tony's arms and pulls him up, setting him on his feet in one smooth motion before Tony can protest. "Look, you've got a place to stay? I've found a youth hostel. It's not bad. It's clean and they don't mind if you squeeze in an extra bedroll. Us New Yorkers oughta stick together."

Tony is bemused. Happy obviously thinks Tony is poor, innocent, and needs protection. It's... actually rather sweet, but Tony's not in the market for another bodyguard. "Yeah, no. I actually am rich. I'm the heir to an unreasonable size fortune."

Happy laughs and claps Tony on the back. "Sure you are. C'mon, I think I found one of the bars Hemingway drank at. We can catch a bus."

Tony shakes his head. "I hate buses. Hey, how old are you, can you drive here? They won't let me rent a car. Twenty one minimum, with a year's driving experience. It's funny, because I've had a pilot's license for years, but..."

Happy puts his hand over Tony's mouth. "Maybe you've already had enough to drink." He gives Tony a friendly shake. "C'mon, lunch is on me."

Tony wriggles free of Happy's hand. "No, no, look, really. Hey, let's go rent a car. Really." He digs in his pocket and waves a handful of traveler's checks. "I asked! They have a Mercedes. Wouldn't you like to drive a Mercedes?"

Happy looks at the traveler's checks. "This is crazy, put that away. You don't know me. I could beat you up and rob you!"

"See, right there, you've just proved I was right about you. I am so sick of public transport. They really get annoyed when you puke on a bus here, you know that? And the suspension is always so bad, I want to shoot the poor buses and put them out of their misery."

Happy sighs. "All right. I'll rent a car and drive you around for a while, but only until you're calmed down enough to be sensible."

***

_Several months and quite a few countries -- and innumerable bars -- later_

"Hey, Happy! They have a hot-rod red Porsche!" Tony peers into the window of the car on the rental lot. "Niiiice. Take this one, I want to look cool when we drive up to the casino in Monaco."

"Right, Boss." Happy grabs Tony by the back of his collar and heads for the office. "Monaco? I thought we were going to Switzerland next."

"Monaco is on the way. Sort of." Tony grins at Happy. "Oh, and hey, Happy, after that, I'm going back to the US for Spring Break with my friend, Rhodey. I could use a driver."

Happy pauses and looks at Tony. "Sure thing, Boss."

**Author's Note:**

> My Arc Reactor came yesterday when I was at the grocery, so it was not delivered. I am heart-broken. The need to contact USPS and WHINE caused me to wake early, and thereby today's story has been written early (and Betaed during lunch by my Partner In Crime, Greater Love Hath No Fen...).
> 
> I have my fingers crossed that my reactor comes today.
> 
> YAY. A few minutes after posting, my arc reactor arrived. I WILL LIVE.


End file.
